Landing Lights
“What’s your type?”
Brooke was driving, now. Kate had said she didn’t really wanna drive any longer - that they’d pick her car up in the morning. She just kinda wanted to pass out by now, though - it had been a really long day.
Kate glanced at her.
“Huh?”
“Your type. As in, romantically. Sexually.”
Kate blinked at her.
“...Uhm… what’s yours?”
Brooke let out a breath, gripping the wheel a little tighter.
“I’m letting you get away with that dodge of the question.”
Kate’s face burned, a little.
“Height doesn’t matter.” Brooke said - and Kate let her focus drift to her. “They could be taller or shorter then me. But taut stomach, definitely. Thin, but not anorexic. Lean. Darker hair if it’s a boy, lighter for girls-”
Kate choked. Brooke didn’t seem to notice.
“-Preferably red. With girls, anyway. Maybe blonde, though I could definitely date a brunette. Blondes are idiots a little too often, but I do like blonde hair. Brown eyes. That might be an unpopular opinion - but I like amber. Hazel. Auburn. Warm colours. I don’t want to feel cold when looking at someone’s eyes. And no piercings, besides ear. No tattoos, either, though that one’s more negotiable then piercings. And I like hips. Not wide, but enough to grip. Love handles.”
Kate stared at her.
Brooke blinked - and sent her a glance from the corner of her eye.
“Yes?”
Kate’s face, instantly, felt like it lit on fire. She looked away.
“Nothing.”
(She tried not to think about how Brooke had just described her to a tee.)
“Anyway. There. My ideal lover.” Brooke sent her a glance. “Your turn.”
“Oh.” Kate averted her eyes. “Um.”
...My ideal girl.
“She’d be… nice.” Kate muttered. “Sensitive. A romantic - like me. She’d like books. Smell like them when she came home, after a long night out. She’d be a cat person. Darker hair - brunette. And she’d have really distinctive eyes. Ones you couldn’t look away from.”
She gathered her hands in her lap.
“We’d have a home, out in the country. Nothing fancy - a cabin, maybe. And we’d have a cat. Kids, too - I want kids. Two daughters, and a son. And she’d come home, after a long night - kids tucked into bed already. The whole house dark and quite. I would be on the couch, waiting for her. And we’d fall asleep together, to the sounds of cicadas outside.”
There was a moment of quiet.
And Kate lit red.
“...Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble.”
Brooke rolled her eyes.
“Oh, shut up. You rambling wasn’t the offensive part of that picture.”
Kate blinked.
“...Then what was?”
“You showed me up.” Brooke said, simply. “I’m describing someone I’d like to fuck - and you’re describing the life you’d like to have with your future, perfect wife. Now I look like a total slut, because you and I answered different questions.”
“...Oh.”
There was a moment of quiet.
“Don’t get morose about it.” Brooke said, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “You made a mistake. You’re human. Big shocker. Tell me your type, this time.”
Kate shook her head, and tried to ignore the guilt brewing in her stomach.
“...Uh. Okay. She’d be… tall. A little taller then me, I think. Just an inch or two. She’d wear glasses. And she’d have darker hair. Dark brown, maybe black. I wouldn’t want it to be dyed - but highlights are okay. I like highlights. Uh… no piercings, I guess... I don’t really care what eye colour, but… bright. And she’d have long legs. She’d… um… work out. And she’d be really pale…”
Kate made the mistake of glancing at Brooke.
Brooke - with her long legs and skintight jeans. Brooke, sitting up in her seat - enough so that Kate could tell that, with decent posture, Brooke had an inch or two on her. Brooke, who had perfect, soft black hair that cascaded down her shoulders in ripples. Brooke, who had no piercings. Brooke, who had pale, soft skin.
Brooke, who had eyes a shade of brown so dark they were nearly black, glittering and perfect in the moonlight.
“...Uhm…”
(Brooke, who had a pale, tender neck that tensed beautifully in the light. Brooke, who was so close that Kate could lean over and press her lips to her collar, and lap at where her skin was so sensitive that she’d start to melt right in Kate’s hands. Brooke, with that callous, sultry voice that was perfect for breathy whines and choked-off moans-)
Brooke, who was snapping her fingers in front of Kate’s face.
“Earth to Kate. Come in, Houston.”
Kate startled - and flushed to her collar.
“I’m fine!” She squeaked - and went a shade darker.
Brooke pulled her hand back again, and gripped the wheel.
“Well, we’re here.”
Kate blinked.
Looked up.
And… there was the school.
“Oh. ...We are.”
Brooke stepped out of the car. Kate rushed to follow her.
Brooke stuck her hands in her pockets as she walked to the door. Kate tried not to stare at her legs - and jogged a little, so she didn’t have to stay behind her for too long.
They walked up to the door - and Kate was about to open it.
Before Brooke’s voice stopped her.
“Wait.”
Kate glanced back.
Brooke stuck out a hand.
“Gimme your keys.”
Kate - slowly - blinked.
“...What?”
“To your car. Your keys. Give them to me.”
Kate reached into her pocket and dug out her keys - but couldn’t stop herself from asking,
“Why?”
“You don’t want to get your car. It’s just a forty minute walk - I’ll go get it for you.”
Kate, instantly, lifted her hands and began to protest.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to-”
“Obviously.” Brooke said, cutting her off very effectively. “But I was going to take a walk anyway, and you are not in any shape to drive. You look ready to drop.”
...I am ready to drop.
“I…”
“Don’t try to object any more. I’ll win. I was top of my debate club - and I ran it. Just give me the keys. Plus - you want to.”
Kate hesitated.
But - slowly - held out her hand.
Brooke snatched up her keys like a predator - and Kate only barely had time to notice her nails.
“...Your nails are painted.”
“Oh.” Brooke glanced at them. “Yes, they are.”
“...You… painted your nails mint green.”
“I did.”
“That’s… my favorite colour.”
“I know.”
(Oh.)
(Oh no.)
Brooke raised an eyebrow at her. “Well? What about it?”
“I… I’m just surprised.” Kate muttered - and really, really tried not to kiss her.
“Why?”
“You painted your nails for me.”
Brooke looked remarkably like she had been slapped, for a moment.
“What? Don’t be loopy. Your mention of colours reminded me I needed to paint my nails - and I decided against black. And I happen to also like mint green.”
Brooke wasn’t blushing, and she wasn’t stuttering - and yet, she was being a little more defensive then Kate thought the situation warranted.
Kate squinted at her.
“...Rrreally?” She hummed - and sure, maybe she was milking it, but she had something to tease Brooke about for the first time ever and she wasn’t passing it up. “Because you only decided to paint your nails after I mentioned my favorite colour, and you just happened to decided to paint them that exact colour - and frankly, Brooke, that’s quite the coincidence.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence.” Brooke said. “Your mention of mint green just reminded me how much I like that colour.”
“...But you didn’t paint them for me.”
“Yes. I did not paint them for you.”
Kate nodded easily - though she couldn’t stamp out the tiny smile on her face.
“Okay then, Brooke. If you say so.”
“I do say so.” Brooke said, sticking the keys into her pocket.
(...Was that it? This night had gone on forever and had slipped through her hands like water.)
(Brooke was lit white in the light, moonrays silhouetting her.)
Kiss her goodnight.
No. That was dumb - that was so dumb, this hadn’t been a date, she’d just gotten Brooke to start opening up-
(And she looked so beautiful at night.)
Kiss her. You want to.
There was nothing romantic about this - Brooke hadn’t even really been friendly.
She gave you a watch. Showed you her scars. Painted her nails for you. Told you her type was practically just you. What do you need, landing lights?
It… it was too risky.
You only live once.
“Goodnight.” Brooke said, very suddenly - already turning away.
And her chance was gone.
“G-goodnight!” She managed - and it sounded absolutely pathetic.
Being Brooke Scott wasn't as easy as people seemed to think it was.
Her hand, gently, traced the line on her wrist - exposed to the wind, now that she'd given one of her watches to Kate.
She had the scars to prove it.
No, being Brooke Scott wasn't easy. It never had been. And people hurled insults at her for being herself, and shoved her around the halls - and her mask was so perfect that they couldn't see the boiling point she'd been reaching for years and years.
Sometimes, she considered murder.
It wouldn't be hard. She wouldn't feel a thing. Plunge a knife into someone's stomach - down they go. Easy peasy, Japanesey. Maybe it would relieve some stress.
She didn't really want to kill anyone, but she certainly could.
(...She hadn't painted her nails for Kate.)
No, of course she hadn't. She'd been there, it was ridiculous for her to even consider that an option. She hadn't painted them for anyone.
(Kate was a lesbian.)
...That was certainly a development she hadn't been expecting. Kate Marsh, good little Christian girl, little miss perfect with straight A's - a closet lesbian. She hadn't even seemed to realize she was using female pronouns in her descriptions.
She was going to get Kate's car.
It was probably a pile of junk.
She licked her lips.
It was very cold outside.
...She wondered.
She was a people watcher. Not quite a professional - she wasn't paid for it - but a very good one. And, sometimes, she wondered about what people did when they were back home.
She didn't stalk anyone. She just... wondered.
The inner workings of the average mind fascinated her. So slow and cumbersome. So inefficient. Plain macabre.
One of her favorites was wondering how someone would shower.
Rachel Amber, for instance. She'd luxuriate. Use up all the hot water. Take her sweet, sweet time. She'd have a whole row of products on her ledge - bottles upon bottles of cream and shampoo and body wash.
Chloe Price, on the other hand - she was a quick one. She hated taking showers. Leap in, leap out. Maybe she even took cold showers. She didn't have much product - no creams. Two-in-one shampoo and conditioner.
But she liked being out of the shower. She had her sink counter littered with items. She'd take her time, drying off and putting on her clothes. Chloe Price probably loved the feeling of cold air hitting her skin, after a shower.
She'd never wondered about how Kate Marsh took a shower.
...She didn't use any skin care products. Maybe lotion, but that was it for her. A little perfume - but not much. Just enough to get a whiff. She didn't have much on her ledge, either - she was on a budget. Her favorite part was probably brushing her teeth - the taste of mint.
(Maybe she was taking a shower right now, before bed.)
Maybe. Yeah, maybe she was. Hands folded in front of her chest - fog spilling out onto the bathroom floor.
Did she use a loofa?
...No. She didn't. Chloe did, but Kate didn't. She'd run her hands up from her hips, slick and smooth, up to the slender line of her neck - and bubbles would gather in the crevices of her shoulder blades-
(Her stomach turned.)
Oh. Oh, oh God.
It just got worse and worse.
She gripped her stomach with one hand - and grit her teeth.
(She'd never felt like this. Sick, sure, she'd felt that - but not this kind of sick, where it felt like her stomach was tying into knots and trying to escape through her throat.)
What was this?
It was sporadic. Unpredictable. It got worse, and worse, and worse. It made her want to crawl in a hole and never get out - it made her skin flush and crawl with something itchy and thorny. It - it didn't make sense.
It only happened while she was thinking about Kate-
...
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh, no. No. no, no, no no no nonononono.
She was not attracted to Kate, she was not attracted to Kate, she wasn't wasn't WASN'T.
...No.
She wasn't.
It wasn't attraction. It wasn't romantic. It certainly wasn't sexual.
...Anxiety.
Yes, that was it. Anxiety. Anxiety that Kate hated her - that this friendship would end like all the others. Anxiety that this was just an idiotic pipe dream that wouldn't end with anything but Kate tearing away all the changes to her dorm.
(Right. She had to help Kate improve her dorm. It was far too bare.
Someone was repressing her.)
Her mom, probably. Judging from what she'd said about singing.
(She was really good at singing.)
...
Brooke was fine.
She was fine.
(She was always fine.)
Her hand found the bare, white scar on her wrist.
(...She should get back to walking.)
Right. She had to get Kate's car for her. Kate had looked miserable by the end of the night - she was in no shape to get it herself. And then, tomorrow morning, she'd get to work fixing Kate's dorm.
She had a plan.
Things always made more sense with a plan.